Pitchmarks #41 - 14th April 2024 - On Days Like These

On the second Sunday in April, things appear to change. The false starts seem behind us, for spring is most definitely here. The grass almost grows before our eyes; the birdsong caresses our ears. In one particular locale there exists a precious cocoon, from which will burst forth the golfing season, and our own delicate hopes and dreams for this summer will be reflected in the eyes of the competitors on the main stage before us.

From its inception - the brainchild of that rarest of species these days, the true amateur - this tournament has been a festival of all that is good about golf. Etiquette, sportsmanship. Fine traditions and even finer golf. For a few days at least, we might forget about the divisions in the elite game; forget about the distance debate, which has raged on and off since well before this event began. We can even forget the life-sapping complexity of the handicap system, for this week’s masterful exponents will play without any allowance, and take very few strokes at all.

The grounds upon which the drama will play out are familiar yet endlessly fascinating. The greens will be rolling fast; the devilish, shaved run-offs terrifying. Though we all know the holes well by now, still they confound the players, time after time. Wicked bunkers and tranquil streams; the physical hazards as menacing as those between the players’ ears, as they try and contribute to a glorious heritage.

This week, the wind is up, and as it swirls through the aisles of one of golf’s great cathedrals, flags flap in a chorus while balls sail away on the breeze. The gallery is quiet, respectful. An educated crowd. An understanding smile, some restrained clapping. Now and then a delighted roar, turning heads on the holes behind.

We’ve no idea who’ll win, but we’ll watch transfixed to find out, somehow reassured that as the world goes to hell in a handcart, this sort of thing still goes on, and still matters somehow. Come the Sunday back nine, there’ll be just a few players left in it, and they will battle with themselves and each other, hoping to leave their forever mark on golf’s long ledger, trading birdies and bogeys and smiles and scowls, and then - when the last of a great many strokes has been cast, and the ball is finally at rest in its hole - we shall know what happened this time around.

And the action will move to a sacred chamber clad with ancient timber, and a hush will descend as arms are thrust through blazer sleeves, and this year’s triumph declared, and a few grateful words spoken. Cameras will flash, and smiles break out, and here and there a chest might heave and an eye or two moisten, and then slowly but surely we will all drift back to the real world, and to all the other, endless stuff.

Everything is the same, and yet everything changed; our spirits refuelled. And perhaps from some celestial locker room, the ghost of that great amateur looks down on his legacy, and smiles. The hickories are long gone but the essence remains. It is the second Sunday in April, and on days like these, stories are formed and legends are forged. For this is the Halford Hewitt. Thank you, Hal.

Images courtesy of the author

PS…I realise that some of you may be aware of a different event elsewhere this weekend - another one that I can never play in (and possibly never visit; shall I fetch a violin?). For those who also love The Masters, here is a companion piece from earlier in the week, with thanks to the lovely people at Sounder: https://soundergolf.com/blogs/journal/style-is-eternal